Chapter 1 Olivia #2
My day gets even better when I see Kennedy leave the restaurant with her father. She checks out Hot Guy as she passes him on the sidewalk. She pauses to look inside her Givenchy handbag, clearly waiting for him to notice her. He doesn’t. He turns away from her. He looks annoyed.
There’s so much to like about that fellow.
He slowly turns toward our window and notices the small crowd staring at him. We immediately start talking to each other animatedly, as if we’re having a staff meeting instead of objectifying an attractive stranger. Then we split up.
After serving the medium-rare burger to the suit at table twelve, I take a quick break to run to the staff restroom in the back.
By the time I’m washing my hands, I hear Milo right outside the door calling for me.
As soon as I open the door, he asks, “Do you know that guy?”
“What guy?”
He lowers his voice. “Jizz in My Pants guy! Tara said he asked to be seated in your section. Go talk to him immediately! I need to know if he’s mean and smells as good as he looks.”
Well, this is interesting.
I take my time sauntering over to the man’s table.
I don’t think I know him. He looks to be several years older than me in age and at least a decade older in maturity level.
His short wavy hair is the color of my favorite faded black T-shirt, his eyes are ocean blue, and the sum of all his features is nothing short of electrifying in the sunlight.
His eyes widen almost imperceptibly when he looks up at me, pupils dilated.
He seems to catch his breath before a big, toothy smile spreads across his face, transforming it.
I am nearly blinded by his beautiful white teeth.
I could stare at his face all day, I think.
His eyes quickly travel down to my feet and back up again.
I am about as used to being given the once-over as a dancer can be, but on top of feeling a slight tremor in my lower belly, I feel…
self-conscious? Is this what being self-conscious feels like? I thought I had that trained out of me.
I am simultaneously hyperaware of his gaze while being mesmerized by this guy’s face.
And then he speaks…
“Hey, Tiny Dancer.”
I stare at him. At that smile that evolves into a familiar smug grin. That cocky, cocky grin.
“Johnny?” I speak his name—somewhere between a question, a statement, and a mild swear word—before my brain has completely registered that it’s him.
John Brandt.
My brother’s best friend.
The first male human I met who wasn’t genetically related to me.
I’ve been calling him Johnny B. Nerdballs since I was old enough to know that he and my brother were nerds.
I was in kindergarten. They were nine. I’d had a secret, inexplicable crush on him since I was probably ten days old.
Until I was old enough to realize he may be a genius in one sense, but he’s too dumb to like me the way I deserve to be liked. And so I moved on. Hard and fast.
Johnny B. Nerdballs, when did you get hot?
“You didn’t recognize me?” he asks. He seems genuinely surprised. As if he doesn’t know he went from adorkable to Adonis since I last saw him.
“You look…different.” I shift my stance, both feet flat on the ground, as if on some level I’m afraid of being knocked over. I don’t make a move to hug him because I can’t think of one time we’ve ever hugged each other.
“Right. Well. I finally started taking better care of myself.”
Amen.
You sure did.
Growing up, I saw Johnny’s face nearly as often as I saw my brother’s, but he is almost unrecognizable.
He’s not wearing glasses, which is significant.
Being able to look into his intensely inquisitive eyes straight on is…
unnerving. Getting a full view of his cheekbones is disarming.
Gone are the anemic complexion, the dark circles, the layer of puffiness beneath his skin.
He has the golden glow, toned skin, and confident posture of the very rich.
And he is—very rich. I don’t know the details, but he’s a tech founder and entrepreneur.
He started something and then sold something for a lot of money to some big corporation. Or something.
My parents and my brother have spoken of him and his success a great deal whenever I visit them, but I’m so dance obsessed, I’ve never taken the time to look him up.
I could tell you everything you need to know about Baryshnikov or Misty Copeland, but all I can say about Johnny is that he seems to have become exactly as awesome as he always believed he would—on a global scale.
I was very happy to hear of his good fortune, but it somehow never occurred to me that we’d cross paths again, even though I knew he was based in Palo Alto. He wasn’t exactly supportive of my decision to become a professional dancer, so I wasn’t eager to get in touch.
Seeing him now, I’m feeling homesick.
Seeing him now, I realize I’ve missed him.
Seeing him now, I remember why I had that weird little crush on him.
He looks at me like no one else ever has—like he’s trying to understand me. Like he’s Matt Damon and I’m a math equation on a chalkboard when the MIT hallway is empty.
I’m sighing.
This won’t do. I turn that sigh into a cough. This absolutely will not do. I’m the hot one. How dare he be so handsome?!
I adjust my posture, tap back into my goddess energy, find my voice, and casually ask, “What’s it been? Five years?”
“About six years, yes.”
“Right.” I haven’t seen him since he and my brother graduated from MIT. He could have skipped two grades when he was in middle school, but he wanted to stay in the same grade as Nathan so they could go to college together. Which is sweet. “So. How are you?”
“I had dinner with your brother a week ago—did he tell you?”
“No. Where? If he was in the Bay Area and didn’t see me, I’ll kill him.” Nathan lives in Chicago and claims to be allergic to the air on the West Coast.
“We were both in New York on business. I’m sure he’d let you know if he were in town. He’s quite fond of you.”
There’s no smirk or irony in his voice. He genuinely thinks I need to be told that my overprotective older brother is quite fond of me. What a dork. Or is it sweet? Or condescending? I can never tell with him.
“Did Nathan tell you I work here?”
No response. I know he heard me, but answering other people’s questions when they ask them has never been a high priority for him. What he says is “Question: Do you have a valid passport?”
Question: Have your lips always been so full? Growing up, that mouth was just a moving hole that annoying, confusing words came out of. Now I have to force myself not to imagine what it would feel like to be kissed all over with it.
I clearly need to get laid.
I definitely need to go to the gym and work out really hard.
This is a ridiculous reaction to be having to the biggest dork I’ve ever known.
Why does he get under my skin like this? I can handle every other person in this restaurant with ease, but the nerd I grew up with is making my knees shake. All because he’s rich and handsome now? Hell. No.
“I always have a valid passport handy in case I get recruited by the Royal Ballet,” I deadpan.
He blinks, and after a beat, he asks, “Has that happened?”
“Not yet,” I say. “Which is why I’m here. Taking your order. And not dancing in London. But fingers crossed.” He still takes words at face value. It’s comforting. “Why on earth would you ask me that?”
“You’ll see.” He hands me the menu and, without any kind of transition, says, “I’ll have a Caesar salad with grilled chicken and as little garlic powder as possible.
And I want the Parmesan cheese to be shredded.
Not shaved or powdered. Iced tea with no sugar or fruit flavoring, and a hot coffee, black.
But only if the coffee here is good—is it good? ”
“Yes. We do Ritual Coffee. The drip today is from Costa Rica. Tasting notes are cacao, tangerine, and oolong tea. It’s my favorite.”
“Yes, I’ll have that.”
“Okay. That’s it?” I huff. Now I remember why he drives me nuts. “You really aren’t going to ask me anything else—like how I’ve been for the many years since you last saw me, for instance?”
He nods once and picks up his phone. “That’s it for now. When do you get off? Three o’clock?”
“Or so.”
“I’ll wait for you. I’d like to hear about how you’ve been, Olivia,” he says. “After three o’clock.”
And blammo. I’m in the excitement phase of the sexual-response cycle. Hearing him say my name like that, it’s…unusual.
“If you don’t have plans immediately after work,” he continues, “there’s something I’d like to discuss with you. It’s important. And urgent.”
“Is everything all right?”
But alas, he does not appear to hear me. He has already disappeared into his phone and back up his own asshole. At the sound of my dramatic exhale, he remembers I’m standing here. “What? Yes. Everything’s fine. I just wanted to talk to you about things.”
“Ahh. Things. Well, I look forward to that, then. Be right back with your drink order, sir.”
He nods and stares at his phone without reacting to being called sir, because he’s probably used to it. He’s probably used to ordering people around and having them at his beck and call. Well. Not me. Except while I’m waiting on him in this restaurant.
I retreat to the POS in a daze to put in John’s order.
It feels like every cell in my body is running around screaming.
This is exactly the kind of low-grade torture my body remembers and the high-level torture my brain can’t seem to forget.
I thought it was just teen-girl hormones, but nope.
It’s Johnny. Being physically attracted to someone who makes you want to bang your head against the wall is the least exquisite kind of agony.
Milo comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my shoulders. “I hate you,” he mutters into my ear. “Tell me everything. Was he mean? His smile is gorgeous. Fuck me silly and call me Daddy, who is he? What did he say to you?”
How can I explain what it’s like to see John Brandt and then to experience having an actual conversation with him?
It’s like getting into a beautiful, brand-new, shiny, black BMW, and then as soon as you’re strapped in, you realize that it will only play “Rock Me Amadeus” over and over again and you can’t turn it off or turn down the volume.
It’s like diving into a crystal-clear, sparkling infinity pool at a luxury hotel and feeling the shocking sting of ice water on your skin.
It’s like being served a gourmet meal on the house at a three-star Michelin restaurant and then finding out you’re allergic to every single ingredient.
He is quite possibly a high-functioning sociopath trapped in the body of a male model. Or he may be a low-functioning player trapped in the brain of a nerd. Either way, he has driven me nuts for as long as I’ve known him, and it seems I can’t get enough.
Remember that list of attributes I possess that are necessary for surviving the life of a ballet dancer? I firmly believe that they’re also the reason I’ve managed to put up with Johnny Brandt without punching him in the face or setting my own hair on fire. So far.